


the holy game of poker

by timeisweird



Series: snapshots [9]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Inspired by Poetry, Minor Violence, Not Really Character Death, POV Second Person, Time Lords Are Aliens, Time Shenanigans, and its vague doctor but i wrote it with ten in mind i think, but it's the doctor's pov, cause of the tlv attitude yknow, i realize this reads as some sort of weird heist, my writing is just getting weirder and weirder every day, probability manipulation, repetition in both prose and timelines, tlv esque, too many metaphors to be reasonable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeisweird/pseuds/timeisweird
Summary: The variables are these. You have twenty minutes and an infinite amount of chances. Let’s see how you do.





	the holy game of poker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thevoiceoflightcity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevoiceoflightcity/gifts).



The facts are these. This is what you cannot change. This is what has to happen.

You stand in a corridor. You are surrounded by cold, solid metal, something like steel but nothing so simple. The air is recycled and refreshed by a process hidden behind the walls in pipes and machinery.

She sits in a cell. She is surrounded by cold, solid metal, something like steel but nothing so simple. The air is recycled and refreshed by a process hidden behind the walls in pipes and machinery.

In front of you are three figures. They are only three out of the dozens of soldiers on this station that hangs over a dark planet lit by no sun. They each hold a weapon that they’ve aimed at you. The type of weapon is not important. Take your pick.

For you to reach her, you have to pass five obstacles. The group of three in front of you is one obstacle, the lock on the cell is another. You have three obstacles left. The type of obstacle is not important. Take your pick.

You stand in the Center of it all, the universe nothing more than a game, if you want it to be. You have twenty minutes and an infinite amount of chances.

Let’s see how you do.

(The trick is this: the space between seconds can be stretched out to eternity)

In your mind, you pry the situation apart.

The variables are a deck of cards fanned out across green felt in front of you. You’re the only player in this game of poker. The rest went home early, leaving you alone in a dimly lit room, your only company the shadows that cut.

You consider your hand, toss your chips into the pot, then act.

You stand in a corridor, she sits in a cell. In front of you are three figures. They hold rifles filled with bullets made of a steel-alloy. They aim, you run. They shoot, you fall. You dissolve into white-hot, golden energy. You die for the first time.

You didn't get far enough to consider the next two obstacles. Try again.

The variables are stars in the night sky. Black void with pinprick points of light for company. Dewy grass beneath your feet, you look up and shift around the constellations.

You stand in a corridor, she sits in a cell. In front of you are three figures. They hold pistols akin to tasers, trapped electricity growling in wait. They aim, you run. They shoot, you fall. The current runs through your hearts. You die for the second time.

You consider the sky above you with a thoughtful hum, and nudge a star aside.

They aim, you run. They shoot, you fall. The current runs through your flesh and into the metal around you. Your skin burns and your muscles ache, but you’re alive. You scramble to your feet and keep on going.

The third obstacle is chosen. You come to a stop at a three way intersection. You can go to the left, to the right, or back the way you came. These are your choices now. You roll the dice.

You go to the right. You get closer to the station’s jails. Good job.

The station is full of security measures to prevent intruders from making it too far into the facility, if they make it inside at all. You like to think of these security measures as something more like booby traps. It certainly feels like it.

You arrive at the station’s jail. You don’t know which cell she’s in, but you’ll find it. The guards are easy to sneak around, if you stick to the shadows and let yourself blend in a little. You do not consider this to be one of the five obstacles, so it isn’t.

The air is recycled and refreshed by a process hidden behind the walls in pipes and machinery. The air is toxic, poisoned with an invisible, odorless gas by a process that you set off when you stepped into the sector without proper identification.

You didn't notice in time. Your respiratory bypass system kicks into play, but it's a little too late. It’s potent, it’s choking, it’s in your bloodstream. You die for the third time.

The variables are a song played by a vinyl record you found in the basement. The record player is dusty and damaged, but it still works. You draw the needle back and let the song play again.

The air is toxic, poisoned with an odorless gas by a process that you set off when you stepped into the sector without proper identification. However, it is not invisible, and before you can inhale a lethal dose, your respiratory bypass system kicks into play. You can’t breathe, but for a while, you won’t need to.

Her cell is not airtight, a flaw in the metal door that had yet to be repaired. She chokes instead of you.

You pause, take the videotape from the VCR, and pull out the film. Scissors and tape are applied as you cut out a few scenes from the movie, then you put it back in. You press play.

Her cell is airtight. She is able to breathe while you pry open a panel in the wall and access the machinery underneath. The gas shuts off, and the air begins to recycle and refresh itself.

The alarm sounds as the machinery detects unauthorized modifications to the system protocols. A group of soldiers flood into the jail, armed with pistols akin to tasers, trapped electricity growling in wait. You’re caught with your arm buried deep in the wires and machinery behind the wall.

They aim, you jerk your hand out of the wires. They shoot, you fall. The current runs through your hearts. You die for the fourth time.

You rip up the paper the story is written on, and rearrange the scraps. The details change.

They shoot, you fall. The current runs through your flesh and into the metal around you. Your skin burns and your muscles ache, but you’re alive. A boot presses itself against your back, and handcuffs find their way around your wrists, leaving you immobile on the ground. They drag you up onto your feet. Execution is punishment for such an invasion from an alien like you. You die for the fifth time.

You’re drawing dead. Hurry, hurry, find an ace, make a better hand. You have twenty minutes and an infinite amount of chances… but you don’t know how much longer you can watch the show.

Timelines writhe around you, Lord of Time, and you grit your teeth as you drop the pretenses and the metaphors. You _will_ do this, you _will_ save her, you _will_ succeed, and it’s up to Time to make it happen.

The alarm doesn’t sound. The only noise is the sound of the pipes and machinery hidden behind the wall as the poison is filtered out of the air through some automatic process. Once you can breathe the air in without dying, you go find her cell.

The lock on the door barely slows you down with the sonic screwdriver you always keep on your person. You’re tired. The Web of Time grumbles. You glare. The Web of Time considers it an obstacle. That makes five.

She's hurt to see you. She heard nothing while she was waiting, and she was worrying that you had left her.

You knock the last piece of the puzzle into place with a quick nudge of the foot, your hands behind your back to hide the lie you spin.

She’s ecstatic to see you. She heard gunfire while she was waiting, and she was worrying that you had been hurt, or worse.

There, that’s better.

You give her a grin to match her elated energy. “Now come on, let’s get back to the TARDIS,” you say, letting yourself sound like the hotshot you feel you are. “You’ll be the death of me someday, if I’m not careful.”

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from "the stranger song" by leonard cohen. this fic has been inspired by "you are jeff," "the dislocated room," and "litany in which certain things are crossed out," all of which are poems written by richard siken. thevoiceoflightcity says i just Suddenly Became Richard Siken, and i cannot say that ey is wrong. 
> 
> (although, i personally say that "litany in which certain things are crossed out" is so very tups that i am legally obligated to say that the poem reminds me more of tups than anything else. make of that what you will.)
> 
> find on me on tumblr @ [timeisweird!](https://timeisweird.tumblr.com/)


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